


Hope

by BayLester



Series: Prompts [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Drunk Dialing, Future Fic, Pre-Relationship, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 16:04:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10700391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BayLester/pseuds/BayLester
Summary: •	accidentally called your number while drunk asking for a ride and you actually came au





	Hope

The sky has been dark for a very long time now, stars are hidden behind the grey clouds and strong, cold wind is hitting his face like it’s his biggest enemy.

He is staring out of the window, head tilted back. The air smells like winter, and when he closes his eyes, he can almost picture what it was like, before. He takes in deep breaths, holds them for longer than feels comfortable, his lungs burning with need for air every once in a while. He wishes he could breathe the memories inside his chest and keep them there, forever, like they are real. Like it’s still happening. Like everything else is just a bad dream.

It’s not.

Somewhere inside, a phone rings. It’s a ringtone he hasn’t bothered to change since he bought it, it#s not like anyone ever calls him, unless it’s a serious situation when there is no other choice.

He lets it ring, until it goes to voicemail. It’s Stiles.

"Hey, heeey Scotty. I know this isn’t the right time, because you’re probably asleep, buut...." his voice is raspy, there’s loud noise that cuts off his voice most of the time but with Peter’s hearing, he can still understand him. He breathes out, body tensing.

"I think there’s some guy following me. I..can you come pick me up? He kept watching me the whole time while I danced inside and when I got out, he followed me. I’m...fuck, I can’t remember the dude’s name. Never mind. I’ll just get a ride from someone here. Sorry." he coughs.

His voice makes another sound but he ends the call before it fully comes out.

He clears his throat, puts on a jacket and walks out. Finding where Stiles was during the call isn’t that hard, he thinks to himself, scoffing at the iPhone in his hand, thanking Stiles luck for owning one as well.

The drive takes barely fifteen minutes, would’ve taken longer, if he actually abided the rules, but it’s a calm night and he doesn’t meet anyone.

The moment he steps out of the car, he starts looking around.

It doesn’t smell like winter anymore, just booze, and faintly of sweat. Loud music is echoing from inside the house where party is still going on like nothing matters in the world.

Maybe it doesn’t, for them.

He finds Stiles in the back, sitting under a wooden shelter, his body hidden in the corner where nobody can find him.

He does.

Picking him up is easier than he anticipated; there’s a layer of odours, other people, other people’s sweat, alcohol and Stiles’ exhaustion. He carries him into car, puts the seatbelt on and climbs into the car as well.

Stiles sleeps the entire way he drives him home. He doesn’t live with the Sheriff anymore, but in a small apartment in the centre of the town. The spare key is hidden in a little flowerpot that hangs above the door and it makes him roll his eyes. At least it wasn’t hidden underneath the rug. The flower is dry, barely holding on, pale blue turning grey. It reminds him of smoke.

He puts him in his bed, only takes his shoes off because he doesn’t want Stiles to wake up and realize someone took his clothes off without him knowing about it. The glass of water he puts next to Stiles’ bed is him stalling.  He decides when he opens the window.

Cold air gets inside and the smell of winter mixes with Stiles’ own scent. It’s a strange combination, but not bad. Not unwelcome.

He sits there for what feels like eternity. Eyes closed, not moving, just breathing.

He sits there until it’s almost noon and Stiles stirs on his bed for the first time in the past 8 hours. When he looks at him, his cheek is pressed into his pillow, hair messy, dark circles under his eyes that are half open, but looking at him.

He doesn’t say anything, and neither does Peter. He keeps looking at him, and Peter doesn’t know what to think, he is ready to get up and leave when one corner of his mouth turns up a little, just barely.

He smiles at him, and then closes his eyes again.

His body instantly relaxes, something in his chest unfolding.

He breathes in, out, smiles.

The air smells like winter, like snow that’s almost there. New furniture, laundry detergent, dust.

Like Stiles’ skin and Peter’s relief.

It smells like hope. 


End file.
